The Seven Pillars of Zombies and Velociraptors
by Leroy Lohi
Summary: T.E. Lawrence and Sylvester Stallone must fight a horde of zombies and velociraptors. Rated T for some violence. Based on the book "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom."


The Seven Pillars of Zombies and Velociraptors

It was a frigid winter's day in the vast deserts of Saudi Arabia. The wind howled and whipped at squat little shrubs, and it launched devastating particles of sand that made it feel like your face was perpetually falling asleep. The sun was blotted out by a massive roiling storm front. Not that the sun would have helped much, this being a winter's day, and desert winters are cold as balls. You thought the desert was only hot, but really it hates you all four seasons. The clouds hung heavy and low, with each ominous purple furl growling with electricity and rain. The skies had not relinquished their waters yet, and instead hung tantalizingly overhead. Amidst the whipping dirt and twigs, the smell of water was brought from far off; one could even see the foggy tendrils of rain licking the horizon. The day was a prelude to an intense madness anticipated by no one.

Situated hundreds of miles in either direction from civilization, a desert well's black maw sung baritone in the swirling winds. Travelers of all kinds came here during their journeys and relished in its sweet waters. In the desert, these wells play the role of the Disney conjured oasis of palm trees and merry basking Djinn. Reality does not paint them so prettily, and while granting precious watery life and repose they also grant dysentery and spontaneous tribal wars. Disney has been furthering their delusions of oasis for decades, and I feel like I should also point out that Princess Jasmine would have been stoned to death five minutes after first appearing on screen.

Anyway, the well.

Flat, rocky plains dotted with apathetic shrubbery surrounded it for miles before being broken up by the coal pile figures of ancient lava flows. The well was ancient, even in the early 1900s, so long in the elements that the fabulous structure that once surrounded it had degraded to awkwardly leaning rock piles. Every now and then the piles would make a sharp crack as the wind succeeded in deconstructing them a little more. This and the storm were the only sounds that broke the quiet of the desert. One might expect the whispers of time to transcend the past and become perceivable in this silence. They might sound of livestock and running water, and echo off the ruined farmstead several yards north.

Deserts. They remind me of Jennifer Aniston.

This miserable plot of land was not entirely vacant. Two travelers, beaten by the wind and the sand, had set up camp beside the moaning well. They had ridden east, well ahead of their army, to investigate the reports of violent thefts around the well. Some surly Howeitat had been harassing strangers into giving up their camels, who collectively felt that they should have a say in the matter of their exchange. After all, it was _their _bodies; they should dictate what to do with it. Lacking the specialized mandibles sufficient for verbal communication however, the camels resigned to sitting stupidly while their owners were robbed. The two travelers had hoped to find some resolution to this problem, but they were having a hard time even finding the problem, there being no tribals in the area. Now they were content upon just waiting for the rest of the army.

One traveler was sitting on a small boulder a few feet away from a tent that was reacting violently to the wind's onslaught. He was hunched forward slightly as he attempted to scrawl a few lines into his journal. It was bored writing, less active than it was descriptive. The wind had more formal views on literature, even if written in leisure, and attempted to seize the papers away and voice its derisions on his pronoun agreement. This unfortunate man was T.E. Lawrence, leader of the Arabian Revolt. He was not long into his campaign, but he would be destined for a kind of horrid greatness that would leave him tired and depressed. Now he was trying to pass the time like a sane man, but wanted to jump like a loon with every passing gust of literary fury. You probably imagine him as looking like Peter O'Toole. Please don't. I don't know why people like to associate movies with history, but if that is the case then we have to look forward to history classes about Gerard Butler and that blonde guy from the Crocodile Hunter movie and _Van Helsing_ fighting a bunch of sepia Persians. Maybe that's not so bad. Either way, this was the real Lawrence, not the scary-as-fuck Peter O'Toole. He was short, at most 5'5"ish, with a strong jaw and blondish hair and bluish eyes. I continually use the suffix "ish" here because I'm pulling descriptions out of my ass like some sort of ass magician.

Nice to meet you, I'm the Narrator.

Soon enough, the second traveler stepped through the ruins and walked casually around the edge of the well, looking over to see pebbles hit the eerie puddle at the bottom. His name was Sylvester Stallone. I won't describe him. If you don't know what Sylvester Stallone looks like, go back to watching Sex and the City, pansy. Sly Stallone was looking considerably more haggard than his partner, with sand in the creases of his face and twigs in his hair. Earlier, he braved the sandy onslaught and scouted the perimeter of the desolate camp, making a wide ellipse that covered the farmstead as well. Despite there being only howling wind and shivering bushes, he maintained watchful, anticipating an ambush at any moment. He would soon discover that his sentinel was in vain, and there were no lurking tribesmen. He returned, looking cool despite his defeat.

He sat down on a pile of rocks opposite Lawrence and rubbed his hands together, half trying to clean them and half trying to warm them.

"God I have so many muscles," he said.

"Your search was fruitless then?" the soldier asked with amusement.

"No sign of the Howeitat anywhere," Stallone shook his head. The wind picked at the sleeveless black T-shirt he was wearing, and the sand gave it a yellow glaze. "Either they moved on, or those reports were false."

"It's strange though, isn't it? We haven't even found a trace of their existence. Not a rock turned over, nothing. It's like they were never here, and yet there are too many witnesses who've claimed to have been robbed here. That doesn't indicate a few passes, it indicates an established campsite."

"Maybe they got bored and left," Stallone said, looking out across the lonely expanse. "Maybe pickings were slim, and they looked for more opportunities."

"Well, if the reports are to be believed, they certainly had plenty of opportunity right here. There must've been some reason for their departure," Lawrence looked around uneasily and snapped the journal shut.

"Whatever the reason, this trip was a waste," Stallone growled. "Why can't we just move on?"

"I don't want to leave Auda in charge of our forces any longer than I have to," Lawrence grimaced and took off his Bedouin head garb, emptying the bucketful of sand from it. "This wind makes you want to curl up in a ball and scream." He tossed it aside.

"Yeah," was Stallone's only answer. The truth was he hated the desert even more than Lawrence, who already hated it tremendously. They sat there for a while longer, making small talk about how much they hated the sand and the bushes and the camels and the wind. The thunder and howling all around them eventually made conversation a luxury, and Stallone left to stretch his legs.

He walked through the ruins for a while, grunting and flexing while his undersized T-shirt showed every ripple in his fantastic muscles. By dousing the area with testosterone like this, he was preventing any future acts of pansy-ism, and also he knew it made Lawrence incredibly uncomfortable. Since Stallone was the alpha dog (damn you to eternal strife if you disagree) he would occasionally exert his dominance in this fashion, until the bored little soldier retreated to his tent in a fluster. Stallone uttered a manly laugh at this recollection, and threw a few rocks at a distant pile. Naturally they all hit, making high little cracks that broke through the low frequency snarl of the storm. As if in response to this nonconformity, the wind tossed wave after wave of sand upon the rock pile and obscured the sharp edges of the jagged brown stones.

Eventually his walk brought him to where the camels were resting, but to his surprise, they were doing anything but. Both camels were on their feet, turning and snorting at every fleck of dirt that registered in their vision. They looked on the verge of stampeding one another, their wide eyes glossy and mouths foaming. The wind made their fuzzy yellow heads look ruffled and mangy, and when Stallone approached them, they squealed and bucked and tried to flee. He held up his hands and tried to speak calmly to them, but his movement only aggravated them more, and the closer one practically stomped over the farther one in trying to evade. Stallone shook his head and cursed at the animals. He trotted back to Lawrence, who was sitting out in front of the tent and observing the tumultuous skies.

"Hey, camel whisperer," Stallone barked. "They're freaking out back there. Shouldn't we tie them down or something?"

Lawrence made an apathetic shrug. "If you want, sure. The storm probably has them scared. You don't see such a mass of thunder and clouds all that often here."

"Come on, then." Stallone and Lawrence walked back to where the camels had been previously. They were nowhere to be seen, two erratic sets of tracks marking their flight into the wilderness. Stallone cupped his hands around his eyes, shielding them from the dust, and scanned the horizon. It was empty, just like the overturned sand at his feet.

Lawrence raised his eyebrows and whistled. "There goes our food," he said, turning a displeased eye on Stallone.

"What?" Stallone shouted. "It's not like I chased them off with a stick."

"You could've taken initiative and tied them down or something."

"Initiative? Don't talk to me about initiative when you were sitting on your ass counting the fucking sand grains in the air!"

"I wouldn't worry about food if I were you. After all, you talk like you have a lamb chop perpetually wedged in your mouth."

"Watch your tone, you yellow bellied English bastard!" Suddenly, they were fighting each other. Sand went flying as the two men wrestled and snapped at each other, issuing and receiving a volley of punches. Finally Stallone managed to get Lawrence's hands behind his back and brought him to his face in the dirt.

"Alright, alright. We're adults here. No sense in scrambling over some lost camels," Lawrence gasped. A gust of wind threw a mountain of sand in his face and he found himself spitting out his words.

Stallone freed him. "You wouldn't be so diplomatic if you won. Remember who owes who here, alright? If it weren't for me, that gang of wild Ke$ha's would be shitting you out by now."

Lawrence laughed. "I see what you did there! Using those cannibalistic pop singers as both a means to shut me up _and _as a plot device to imply an adventurous history between us! Well done," he said.

"I do what I can for the readers," Stallone said. "All joking and fighting aside, you should have seen the way those camels were bucking and foaming. I'm no camel expert, but it sure looked to me like they smelled something bad on the wind."

"Like I said before," Lawrence dusted himself off and walked on, "It's probably the storm."

"Maybe that's all it is," Stallone continued, "But you should always pay attention to how things around you are reacting. Never eat the bush with fully intact berries, because the birds know it's poison."

"What?" Lawrence looked back. He was not even listening. Stallone shook his head and decided on conducting another perimeter walk. The storm was growing darker and purpler by the minute, each gust of ripping wind more powerful than the last. The tent was barely clinging to its stakes and flapping maniacally, and the well was shrieking at the meteorological assault. Lawrence, seeing no sense in Stallone's constant suspicion, had managed to wedge himself between two half destroyed walls, slightly protected from the wind. He became lodged in this position, but was too tired and miserable to wiggle out. So he fell asleep. Stallone, on the other hand, resolutely pushed through the wind until he was positive nothing grim lurked on the horizons, carefully plotting horrific subterfuge. The wind seemed to bring on an ominous feeling like that of observation. The hairs on the back of Stallone's neck would not have stood more stiffly than if a grey little skin demon was perched on one of the rock piles and boring into him with tiny white eyes surrounded by huge black sockets. Somewhat confident in his search, he walked uneasily back to the well, where he drew up the goatskin. Normally, it would be fat and full of delicious—although slightly goat-tasting- water. This time, it was ragged and dripping, as if he had raked it across and endless field of rocks when he pulled it up. Lawrence was the last one to use it, he thought.

Freeing it from the rope, he took the torn hide over to where Lawrence was nestled in a fitful sleep. He tossed it on the sleeping man, whose dreaming brain turned it into a vicious cephalopod. Lawrence awoke with a shriek and kicked the freezing wet mass off.

"There goes our water," Stallone hissed.

"What the hell, man!" Lawrence cried, rubbing his head where he nearly brained himself on a stone.

"Look at what you did to the hide!" Stallone thrust the soggy thing into his face. "Now we have to risk sending our canteens down every time!"

"I didn't do shit to your hide," Lawrence snapped, grabbing the skin from Stallone. "And this is torn, as if by a knife, damn you. What do you _think_ I did, hm? Sat merrily upon my arse and cut happy little shapes into our only source of water? Don't think you can push this off on me!"

"Are you accusing me of something?" Stallone made a move to pimp slap Lawrence, but the flustered leader of the Arabian revolt put up his hands.

"Now, now, not you necessarily. But look at those cuts! They're clean!" He turned the goatskin over for Stallone to see. Indeed, three clean slices had opened up the goatskin.

Stallone narrowed his eyes. "So they are. Do you think someone is sabotaging us?"

"Possibly. Look at the signs . . . first our mode of transportation is cut, and now we don't have any water. Either this is one of Fate's darker moods or those Howeitat came back."

"We shouldn't let each other out of sight then," Stallone grew grim. "If those bastards want us dead then they'll have to work for it," He cast a suspicious glance around the encampment.

Lawrence nodded in agreement. "Do you have any firepower?" he asked.

"Of course I have firepower; who do you think you're talking to?" Stallone laughed. He reached into a linen sack beside the tent and pulled out two huge revolvers. They were both the same caliber and scratched dull from years of use. He handed one to Lawrence, warning of its recoil, and they sat back to back on a pile of rubble. The entire time they sat without event, which had to have been almost three hours, the hair stood rigid on the back of their necks. Something menacing was being carried on the wind, singing softly into their ears, and tugging at their garments. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was a taunt, meant to dishearten them before the coming conflict. Both of them had been up for several days straight, and the sedentary guard made their lids droop. They would both occasionally jerk awake and make a feeble scan of the horizon before returning to a half dozing state. Stallone was the first to completely fall asleep. Lawrence too kept nodding off, but his ears were becoming frozen and painful from constant exposure. He had left the Bedouin headpiece beside the tent, and now he understood the full usefulness of traditional clothing in this hostile climate. He walked over and grabbed the little wad of fabric, emptying the enormous amount of sand from it. When he turned to where Stallone was sitting, he found a man standing before him.

"Holy fuck!" he said as his heart leapt out of his chest. He thrust the revolver in the man's face and stumbled backward a few steps, toppling over a stone pile. When he hit the ground the gun went off and jolted Stallone out of his slumber. The action hero was quick to his feet and had his revolver leveled on the surprise visitor. With a few nasty expletives, Lawrence regained his footing. They both glowered at the strange man. He was a goat herder, judging from his attire, and had a thin brown face and wispy moustache. His dark blue head garb was torn and it fluttered loosely in the wind, and he regarded both Lawrence and Stallone with a confused, quivering stare.

"Are you the one that's sabotaged our camp?!" Stallone grunted authoritatively and shoved the piece in the herder's face.

"Shouting won't do any good; he doesn't understand a word of English," Lawrence declared, walking slowly to Stallone's side. "God I hate these shepherd types. Their so batty, always having sex with their sheep."

Stallone narrowed his eyes at Lawrence. "What? You've seen this?"

"Well, no," Lawrence folded his arms. "But how weird is it for a guy to be in the wilderness for weeks on end with nothing but livestock? I imagine something freaky ends up happening sooner or later. "

"Dude! How weird is it for two dudes to be in the middle of nowhere with nothing but each other?! Especially if one guy has shit like goat sex going through his head?"

"Oh please. You're the one who's always flexing his muscles. I'm pretty sure the sheep would start having sex with _you_ if they could."

"Do you see what I mean now? Every time you open your mouth, something homoerotic comes out."

"Better than going in, amiright?"

Stallone laughed. "Okay then, let's change the subject," he said. "You know Arabic, ask this guy what he's doing here."

Lawrence complied, and the goat herder uttered out a string of incoherent babble in an insensible dialect that both men found hard to hear. He talked very animatedly, letting his hands fly and gesture to the point that he occasionally hit Lawrence. Stallone looked to them both in an effort to understand their exchange, but from Lawrence's perplexed expression he knew the information would raise more questions than it answered. The dialogue tapered off, with the Englishman offering obvious words of reassurance to the shepherd, who nodded vigorously and smiled. Stallone remembered he had been aiming the revolver squarely at the herder's head, and he lowered it.

"What did he say?" Stallone asked. The goat herder walked out from between them and sat on the dirt, picking at a bloodied spot on his robe.

"He said he was heading down to a village just north of here, to trade some meat he had salvaged from one of his old ewes. When he got there, he found the whole town to be deserted, the people either being 'monsters', as he called them, or ripped to pieces. He got scared and fled. He claims he only just arrived here." Lawrence turned his icy blue eyes northward. "I wonder how far away that village is from here, if we can walk it."

"Ask him when this happened."

Lawrence and the shepherd had another small exchange, at which Stallone noticed that the goat herder had become slow and languid in his speech, as though he were fighting off a deep sleep.

"He says he's been wandering for some five hours." Lawrence's face became grim. "He says the people were eating each other." Stallone made a noise of disgust and they both looked at the shepherd, who was now lying on his back and staring at the ceiling of clouds.

"He doesn't look right," Stallone said warily.

"I told you they were weird."

"No, no. It's something else. Look, he's bleeding."

The goat herder suddenly heaved and coughed. Both men took a step backward when they saw the bloody phlegm oozing out from his nose and mouth. He started to make a hissing cackling noise, and his limbs clawed vainly at the air. His eyes glazed over and his breath became so wet sounding that it was a small wonder how he didn't drown in his own mucous. Suddenly, he sat up, his face as blank as a mannequin, and looked first at Lawrence, and then at Stallone. The two men took a few more cautionary steps back. The herder's face twisted into a maniacal rage, and he bared his rotting stumps of teeth.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Stallone gasped, pointing the revolver at the goat herder and cocking it. The blooming monstrosity slowly got to his feet and made a lightning fast lunge at Stallone. He brought up his meaty arm and parried its vicious swipe. Lawrence anticipated the monster's reaction and fired a shot at it. A wet, stinking hole opened in its back. The once-human thing fell with a pained gurgle and swiped at Stallone's feet, its incapacitation unable to subdue its rage. With one of his huge, steel toed boots, Stallone stomped its skull in, and the monster gave a raspy squeal before lying still.

"What was that all about? Did you see how fast that thing changed?" Stallone walked a circle around the goat herder. "One minute he's talking to us, and the next he's trying to eat me! Bitches are trippin'."

"Look here," Lawrence said, and rolled the goat herder over with his foot. A patch of dried blood on its garment had clinging little bits of sand, and he knelt and ripped that section of cloth open with a dagger. A swollen bite mark marred the shepherd's skin. It looked to be several hours old and severely infected. Green pus oozed from the teeth holes and mingled with the sticky blood to create a brown slurry like what was coming from the herder's nose. Both men winced.

"I meant to ask about this; it was bleeding through his clothes," Lawrence said, looking up at Stallone. "I'll bet he got it from that village. A bite like this is enough to pass on a pretty nasty madness."

"You think it's some kind of disease that spreads through bites?"

"Or maybe just bodily fluids in general, but yes. We need to get him out of here. I sure as hell don't want a rabid goat herder decomposing by where I sleep."

"Fair enough," Stallone agreed, and he started to head for the supply sack. He stopped however, when a peculiar line of black dots on the horizon caught his eye. There were at least a dozen of them, and they grew larger until he could distinguish different colors between them. Lawrence had seen them too, and he turned a worried look over at Stallone, who stood coolly and assessed strategic fighting positions.

"Mind tossing me the glasses?" Lawrence tried to maintain an even tone of voice. Stallone reached into the sack and pulled out a pair of binoculars. Handing them over, Stallone reached into the sack again and pulled out a SPAS. He calmly loaded it while his friend finished scanning the horizon.

Bringing the binoculars down from his face and handing them over to Stallone, Lawrence said, "They're coming from the north. There are fourteen of them. People. All like our friend here." Seeing Stallone's SPAS, he said, "Where can I get one of those?"

Sylvester Stallone smiled. "Don't worry about it, I got this covered."

Lawrence turned the worn revolver over in his hand. "I feel a bit puny right now."

"Time to look alive!" Stallone exclaimed as the small horde of rabid townspeople came into shooting range. "Stick close, don't let them surround you." The moistened shrieks were heard above the din of the storm, and the monsters speedily ran through the low shrubbery, revealing broken bloodied toes and lacerated shins. The two adventurers ran forward and that little corner of desert came to life with the sound of gunfire and inhuman cries. Stallone worked like a machine, turning at intervals to pump devastating slugs into the changed townsfolk, laughing as they exploded and sprayed blood. Lawrence had taken Stallone's other revolver and was working them both, balancing shooting with vicious kicks to the abdomen, which he used the gain breathing room. One zombie managed to make it past Stallone's barrage, and it separated the two with its whirling and snarling. Stallone turned his attention from his other assailants and let a huge fireball explode from the barrel of his SPAS and paint the ruins with the zombie. Lawrence, who was immediately behind the splattered zombie, backed up involuntarily from the fleshy explosion until he was nearly at the well's edge. Tiny pebbles of precarious positions toppled over the edge, making faint splashing noises. Stallone cursed himself for getting so far from his partner in battle, and took out zombie number seven. Between the two of them, they had killed eleven zombies. One at Stallone's back snarled, but it was an elderly woman with two rotted spikes for teeth, and he paid it little attention. Instead he focused on the two large males that were harassing Lawrence at the edge of the gaping well. He had run out of bullets in one revolver, and was too busy blocking with his arm to use the other. They roared and swung their fists at him, pummeling his arm and his left side with incredible rage. Stallone charged forward, but had difficulty in finding a way to shoot them without also turning his friend into a human flute. Instead he shot the encroaching old lady and whistled at the zombies. One looked back with its decaying face at Stallone, and Lawrence used that moment to shove the revolver under its throat and pull the trigger, causing a flower like explosion of grey matter. The other zombie had no hesitation, and one of its hands connected with Lawrence's stomach. He finally lost his balance, and fell backward into the well.

"NO!" Stallone blew apart the last zombie and ran to the lip of the chasm. Echos came up to him from the rocks his feet knocked into the blackness. "Lawrence! Answer me!"

Despite having fallen over fifteen feet, Lawrence had landed on his back in soft mud at the edge of the central pool of water. He was winded and dazed, staring blearily at the circle of purple clouds above him. Sylvester Stallone's head could be seen as a node along the circle, silhouetted against the storm. He tried answering Stallone's calls, but could only manage a wheeze. Up above, Stallone shouted something about getting a rope, but it echoed so badly off the ancient cave that it was indecipherable. After a moment's hesitation, Stallone's head disappeared and the last of his echoes rang into oblivion. Lawrence could feel the air returning to his lungs, and he rolled over stiffly and climbed to his feet. His ribs were aching terribly from the fall, but he was unscathed. Save for directly under the opening, the cave was shrouded in inky darkness that swallowed up sound and launched it back. Lawrence walked around the perimeter of the pool, and found his revolver half submerged in the blueish mineral water by the light of its glint. He attempted to dry it with the sleeve of his outfit, hoping in the short time it had been wet it wasn't completely waterlogged and unuseable. Eerie bird-like chirping noises sounded in the blackness, and the soldier was instantly on edge and pointing the possibly useless gun in all directions. Silence followed for a moment, and he waded out to the center where the light poured in to get a better view of the cave. Then the chirping noises started up again, this time louder and in greater number. There was a group of terrible creatures lurking in the cave, moving expertly through the darkness and chattering to each other. They were approaching Lawrence from an indiscernible direction, to the point where he could hear the pads of their feet on the sparkling mud just out of sight. Something flitted by to his right, and he was barely able to catch a glimpse of something small and angular, covered in a soft feathery material.

Sylvester Stallone finally found the rope. He had misplaced it previously, and now he was chafing over his indolence in retrieving it before it was severely needed. Hearing faint echoes murmuring from the black mouth of the well, he ran over and looked into the darkness. He couldn't see anything, but called out anyway. He got back something hushed and expletive laced in reply.

"You're alive!" Stallone rejoiced.

"What's keeping you with that rope?" Lawrence called up nervously.

"I got it right here—why do you care? It's probably safe as houses down there, man, I might join you."

"No, no, there is something down here and I would appreciate it if you got me THE HELL OUT OF THIS CAVE." Lawrence rarely raised his voice, and Stallone sensed the urgency in his order. Creating a lasso with the rope and looping it around a large pile of rocks, he tossed the other end into the pit. Suddenly, deafeningly, gunfire erupted in the well. The flashes from the revolver's barrel lit up the cave like fire, and Stallone itched to jump down and help Lawrence fend off the mysterious assailants. Several of the terrible creatures, lizard-like in features but hawk-like in their predatory speed and efficiency raced from the darkness and pounced on Lawrence. They splashed through the water and snapped at his legs and arms. He violently kicked them off and took shots at them, but they were much too lithe and evaded his aim before he ever pulled the trigger. One managed to leap onto his back. Lawrence yelped when a huge sickle claw made an ugly tear down his arm, and reached up to grab it by the neck and fling it off. Finally he caught the rope in his wet hands, and continued issuing beastly kicks to the creatures as they fought to overtake him. Stallone, who could only postulate on what was occurring in that cave, saw the rope grow taught and he began pulling it with all his might. A moment later, a sopping wet Lawrence emerged. He scrambled up and away from the cave as if it was full of camel spiders, and Stallone cautiously followed.

"What was down there?" Stallone asked, helping Lawrence to his feet.

"Sooo many velociraptors."

"_What_?!"

"You heard me. I managed to kill two of them, but there must be dozens more, and something tells me they didn't just fall in. There's another opening to the well, maybe south of here, where the terrain levels off."

"Jesus Christ! Could this day get any worse?" Stallone started reloading his SPAS.

"I suppose they could be _flying _velociraptors," Lawrence mused, inspecting the throbbing gash. His sleeves were waterlogged and making him shiver in the wind, so he ripped them off.

"Don't say that, because now it'll happen," Stallone finished popping in the last shell. He nodded over in the direction of the tent. "There's a nearly endless supply of ammo in there. I suggest you jam some in your pockets in case we have any more visitors."

"Is that why your camel was so slow?"

"You can't argue with my foresight now." Several minutes of silence followed, as they both wandered around the perimeter and checked the horizons. The storm had kicked up so much dust that visibility was lowered precious miles, and every passing minute felt like the men were in a satchel and the drawstring was being pulled ever tighter. As he stood looking northward, Stallone determined that it must be afternoon, and already the light was slightly dimmer than before. Darkness would surely mean death for the both of them, but he swallowed that thought and stood resolutely in the wind. As if conjured by his thoughts, the faint shapes of zombies emerged from the sand and stumbled toward the camp. They must have followed the goat herder, but Stallone hatched an idea that would hopefully allow Lawrence and him to stay hidden during the storm. No sooner did he approach the center of the camp than Lawrence ran up to him.

"Velociraptors! Loads of them! All from the south, just as I expected," he said breathlessly.

"Shit," was all Stallone could manage. He had hoped they could retreat to the farmstead and remain undetected by the zombies' rotting sensory organs. With the arrival of the velociraptors, Stallone realized they were sitting ducks in either position. "There's another horde coming from the North," he said, and Lawrence looked to be weighing the two dangers in his mind.

"How about we stand back to back, and work on them individually? That way we'll have both directions covered when they arrive, and it solves the problem of getting separated," he said to Stallone.

"Can't argue with that," Stallone nodded, "Which do you want? Velociraptors or zombies?"

"We'll be surrounded either way, but I think I'll stick with the raptors for now; at least they didn't knock me into a well."

"One moment, then." Sylvester Stallone ran into the tent and came back out with a Gatling gun and an enormous belt of bullets looped around his shoulders. Lawrence facepalmed.

"Wha—do you just carry these things with you wherever you go? Like to restaurants and stuff? Do you head out to a pizzeria with a girlfriend and say 'what a wonderful day, I think a _Gatling gun _will do me just fine'?"Lawrence shook his head. "Does that at least mean I can use your shotgun thingy?"

"What, this? My SPAS?" Stallone said, motioning to the huge gun that was slung over his shoulder. "I'm not letting you use anything that you don't know what it is."

Lawrence sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Right," he said and stood with his back against Stallone's. He had taken the opportunity to reload the other revolver, and now they stood as a deadly duo—pistols on one side and a Gatling gun on the other. But seriously, the Gatling gun was cooler. I don't even know why I included Lawrence; I think just to give the story some credibility. Oprah could probably do a better job. Oprah scares me.

Anyway . . .

The waves reached them almost simultaneously, with the pistols cracking first and then being drowned out by the ominous low frequency Gatling buzz. The velociraptors, feathery and light in the wind, leapt nearly twenty feet in a single bound and extended their sickle claws. Their attacks were cut short when rounds burst through their hide and into their organs, and in one unfortunate case, when a military issued boot crushed its skull. On the other side, the barrels of the huge gun spun until they were red hot, creating a line of gore about waist level on every zombie. In great droves they fell, but more and more swarmed on Stallone until he was using the barrel of the Gatling gun as a bat, thrusting the zombies away. Before long, they were completely surrounded.

"I need you to do me a favor!" Stallone shouted above the snarls and shrieks.

"What?"

"Reach into my pocket!"

"What?"

"Reach into my pocket! Either one!"

"But I barely know you!"

"I will throw you to the zombies if you don't reach into my god damn pocket RIGHT NOW!" The raptors had become painfully aware of their adversaries' fighting prowess, and made circles around the group in trying to find a weakness. Lawrence, while shooting with one hand, used the other to reach into Stallone's pocket. He pulled out a hand grenade.

"A grenade? Nicely done," he smirked, and pulled out the pin with his teeth and tossed it behind him. A huge hole was blown in the horde, but now all of the zombies had arrived and were pummeling the two men. A velociraptor, seeing Lawrence's preoccupation, made a move to pounce, but at the last moment Stallone linked his arms with Lawrence's and bent forward. The raptor met with a devastating double kick in the face and fell to the ground as a crumpled heap. They continued cutting through the horde, but it was becoming apparent that they were outnumbered and underequipped. Lawrence was the first to run out of bullets, and it was proving a difficult task to reload while zombies were flying at him from every direction. Minutes after they started, he was down to his knife and hoping that Stallone could do enough damage alone. The velociraptors fled from the scene, no longer willing to die in droves to avenge the deaths of their two brethren in the cave. The zombies had corrupted brains and felt no fatigue; they were relentless. Both of the men were considerably beaten down almost to a squatting position, tired but unwilling to hit the dirt and be eaten alive.

Finally Sylvester Stallone was at the end of his belt, and the mass was still coming at full force. He considered trying to make a run for the camp for more ammunition, but it was a suicidal task, and he focused on making each bullet count. The Gatling gun coughed out the last few rounds and spun on empty. He tossed it at the zombies and fumbled with the SPAS. A slight decline in zombies on Lawrence's side enabled him to reload, but instead of continuing the barrage on his side, he spun around and began precision shooting over Stallone's shoulders. The particularly aggressive zombies were destroyed before the numbers evened out and he had to face his own half circle of gnashing death. It seemed at last the excessive firepower was thinning out the crowd. Stallone finally saw a clear spot between the zombies and took off with Lawrence in tow. They ran out across the encampment, with ferocious zombies at their heels. As the distance increased a reasonable amount, they slowed enough to see in the dying light and get their bearings. Visibility was only a hundred yards, with the darkness and sand obscuring every point of reference not immediately before them.

"We should head for the farmstead. I saw a platform about ten feet up we can climb onto; see if we can't pick off a few from there," Stallone shouted. They maneuvered their way hurriedly through the coming darkness and managed to find the farmstead. It was mostly destroyed from years of abandonment, but a precarious climb along the half toppled walls lead to a second story platform that was sturdy enough to stand on, just as Stallone had said. They persisted through the frigid wind until they were huddled together on the platform. Stallone had taken one of Lawrence's revolvers, and they sat together taking shots at the zombies that had followed them. By the time all light had faded from their vision, most of the zombies were dead, and no more groans of hunger came up from below.

The morning sun shone hard and bright on Lawrence's face, awaking him even though he didn't remember drifting off. Stallone was still propped against his back, sleeping peacefully. He eased away and let Stallone gently fall to his side on the platform before stretching his legs and looking out across the landscape and the carnage that had befallen it. The air was still, and any memory of the storm was roiling far away on the horizon. It was terribly freezing, which made Lawrence thankful when he noticed the glazed corpses of dozens of zombies and velociraptors sparkling with frost in the light of the sun. Any remaining zombies likely died of exposure or simply wandered off. Stallone grunted behind him and came lazily out of his sleep, literally rubbing the sand from his eyes and taking in the massacre with professional pride. Together they slid off the platform and crunched amongst the tattered flesh and pools of blood.

"It is a really nice day," Stallone remarked.

Lawrence nodded, "It is. I'm going to see if there's anything salvageable from the tent." He wandered off, trotting boldly through the bodies as if they never were things of terror the night before. Stallone watched him go, before inspecting around the homestead ruins to see if anything of use was left behind. Disappointed, he relieved himself. As he came back around and strolled toward the well, one of the bodies proved not quite dead. It rose at his passing and lunged itself at him. Taken by surprise, Stallone fought him off with veracity, but not before suffering a terrible bite to his arm. Stallone winced in horror and pain at his failure so close to his perceptive victory. The zombie made another lunge at him, but its head flew apart as shots rang not far behind Stallone. Lawrence had found the rest of the ammunition and his head garb. He loaded his revolver as he came closer to Stallone.

"Stay where you are," Stallone warned, holding up a hand. "I've been bitten." Lawrence continued approaching anyway and stood a few from Stallone.

Lawrence sighed and cocked his head at the bite. "Damn," he said quietly.

"Yeah, damn. Look, it's safest to just kill me," Stallone said. "We can't take any chances. Not here. Not now. Not when the army is so close. What happens if they get infected?" Lawrence started to bring up the revolver, but stopped.

"Allow me a little hesitation," Lawrence pleaded. "I've killed too many people out of reasons I thought justifiable. I was wrong then, and now I have to kill someone purely out of suspicion."

"You brought us here out of suspicion, so don't act like it's something below you. Come on, if you don't pull that trigger, you're signing your death warrant, and the death warrant of this entire war!" Stallone barked at the soldier.

"I see what you're doing, and you can't bully me into killing you."

"Can't you at least take me out while I'm still clear headed and human?"

"It took that goat herder at least five hours before he changed. Maybe someone in the army will know something about a cure?"

"We just fought an entire village that succumbed to this! Don't let your false hopes kill you, man. Seriously, kill me now."

"No."

"Damnit! I didn't want to do this!" Stallone tackled Lawrence with full force and snapped at his neck. The soldier brought up the gun instantly and shot him in the neck. With a faint gurgle, Sylvester Stallone hit the hard ground like a pack of meat and painted it red with his jugular wound. Lawrence hung his head and apologized. He found what was left of the tent and wrapped Stallone's body in it, before grabbing a shovel and digging a hole. It was mind numbing work, but necessary. Sylvester Stallone deserved a full service, being a super badass and all, yet the desert could only provide a shallow grave dug with obligation, not care.

Lawrence had spent the majority of the remaining time leaned against a ruined wall of the farmstead, gazing out at the western horizon for his army. He stayed oblivious to the twittering birds and melting frost and thawing corpses. He was oblivious to the red on sandy yellow around him and the vibrant blue of winter skies. The ground sparkled at his feet and beckoned for him to make that satisfying crunching noise when he walked, but he remained ignorant to its calls. All that mattered was abandoning the lifetime of bad memories that that well site had conjured, and getting on with his campaign. His superiors didn't care about the zombies, the velociraptors, or even Sylvester Stallone. They just needed a job done.

Finally, at noon, the marching Arab rebels were visible along the horizon. Lawrence felt a little better about his survival, and considered walking out to greet them-to direct them away from the terrible encampment.

Something stopped him, however, from venturing towards the marchers. Something in the appearance of them,-the lack of the tall shapes created by men on camels-created a feeling of unease in Lawrence. Bringing the binoculars up to his face, he spied something that made his blood turn to ice water.

All of his men were zombies.

Some remaining memory had kept them together and heading east, but they were snarling and bloodthirsty and awkwardly shambling through the terrain. An infantry of death and chaos, some three hundred strong.

And they were heading straight toward him.

He was already several yards east by the time the binoculars hit the sand, and he would not stop running until his chest exploded and his legs collapsed.


End file.
